Cue the elevator music…

Life has been good lately. Really good, actually. But you’d never know it by reading the blog posts I’ve started and deleted over the last few months.

I’m generally a happy person, thanks in large part to this blog. It’s been my therapist, my sounding board, my confessional. I just can’t figure out how to incorporate that happiness into written words on this page.

I’ve been so wrapped up in getting ready for this baby, that I’ve somehow forgotten how to take pleasure in the little things. Even though I’m content for the most part, I seem to be stuck in a rut of complaining about the stupid little things.

I’m frustrated with my writing, and all the whining and b*tching. No cute stories about the dogs. No funny anecdotes about my dippy husband. No pictures to show off.

So, I’m taking some time off to regroup, if you will. The baby is due to arrive between September 7th & the 10th, and I need to take that time to get to know my husband again. And enjoy these last stolen moments of life as a couple instead of a threesome.

I don’t know what the future of Zookins entails. I’ve been writing about the pregnancy & the baby at Chubby Mummy, and will continue to do updates over there until I get it together. If you’re interested, please update your bookmarks and links to http://www.chubbymummy.com.

But for right now, I need to take a break and put the phones on hold for a bit, if you will.

Until we meet again, may all of your wishes on stars come true……

Silly Little Confessions

~*~ I’ve worn contacts for, oh, I don’t know, 20 years now . . . and I still can’t tell if they’re inside out or not when I take them out of the package.

~*~ I often drink straight out of the milk container. Ditto for orange juice.

(As a side note – has anybody else tried Simply Orange yet? Holy mother of God, is that stuff good!!! I buy the pulp-free OJ with added calcium, and it’s the only orange juice I’ve found that actually tastes like a fresh orange. And, it’s sodium free. It’s a little pricey; but worth it.)

~*~ I get absolutely repulsed when people eat a grape straight out of the bin at the grocery store. I know they’re checking the flavor; but that grape they just rammed in their gob was covered in pesticide and fuel fumes and who knows what else. Blech.

~*~ I read my mother off today, for not knowing how to leave a g**dammed message on the answering machine. It’s always, “It’s Mom. Call me back.”. Never, ever, ever tells me what the hell she wants, because she thinks it’s beneath her to leave a detailed message. I’ve told her at least 200 times to include why she’s calling in her message; and it frustrates me to no end that she just can’t be bothered. Well, f*ck it, then. I just can’t be bothered to return her call, either.

~*~ Every time I drive past a heavily wooded area, I think, “Well, that would be a great place to hide a body.”.

~*~ I haven’t picked up my camera in months. I miss it.

~*~ Once the baby gets here, I want to take a daily photo of him. I think it will be fun to see him change through pictures, because I don’t think you notice it as much when you’re living it.

~*~ I really need to clean the toilet in our guest bathroom.

~*~ Every time I go through the drive through at the bank, I steal their pens.

~*~ I absolutely love the smell of Sharpie markers. And those king-size black markers.

~*~ I have an intense craving for a peanut butter Twix bar. I bet it would be good dunked in Cool Whip, too. Do they still make peanut butter Twixes? Or is it Twixii?

~*~ I sometimes check out the “men seeking men” and “women seeking women” ads on Craigslist. Not because I’m interested; but because no one around here ever sells anything good!

~*~ I occasionally wonder if I’m adopted. Because the rest of my family can curl their tongues in half lengthwise, but I can’t.

Blank Pages.

Crap on a cracker.

I’ve literally started about 20 different blog entries, and they’re all garbage.

I can’t seem to compose my thoughts into something coherent.

Call it the summer slumps.  I’ll be back later.

Trying to stay one step ahead…

The baby is due in just 59 days.  FIFTY NINE DAYS!!!!!  Think back 59 days ago, and we were getting ready to celebrate Memorial Day.  Does it really seem like that much time has passed?  No. Way.

Anyway, I’m at a new all-time high weight, and I hate it.  Yeah, yeah, need to gain weight for the baby, blah blah blah.  Don’t get me wrong – I’m not dieting now.  But I will be once the wee one makes his grand entrance into the world.

I’ve done weight watchers; and although I think it’s a fantastic program, it makes me OBSESSIVE about food.  I’m already a closet binge eater . . . I don’t need to encourage this destructive behavior by planning my binges to stay within my daily points value.

I know cutting calories and exercise are the only things that work for me.  “Eat less, move more” sounds so freaking simple, doesn’t it?!?

However, I find myself eating meat less and less, especially beef.  I hate pork, so we never eat ribs or pork chops or bacon.  And we’ve had a couple of bad packages of chicken breasts, with bits of bone and muscle and blood clots stuck to the trimmed part.  Ick.

So, I’m throwing out the idea of trying semi-vegetarianism for a while.  I would still eat cheese and an occasional egg, and maybe fish once in a while (if it’s caught fresh by The Husband or my dad – none of this processed crap from the supermarket).

But no more processed meats.  A good friend of my mom’s raises his own chickens, and my mom buys several of them each year.  The organic chicken meat from her friend’s farm tastes so different from the store bought chickens, it’s almost unbelievable they’re the same poultry products.

I think of the amount of artificial growth hormones they pump into these animals to make them bigger and stronger and able to produce more milk/eggs/whatever; and can’t help but wonder if that’s somehow related to the skyrocketing numbers of women stricken with PCOS.

I’ve already found some good resources for meatless meals.  This one from Mayo Clinic has some decent ideas, and there are a billion cookbooks on amazon.

Jen – I know you already follow a vegetarian plan.  Does anybody else?  If so, do you have any good resources?

Anyway, that’s my thought for right now.  I know it won’t be “easy”, but I’m willing to try it for at least 3 months.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?!?

Gossip + Speculation.

Does anybody else wonder if Nicole Kidman faked her pregnancy & used a surrogate?

One of the trashy magazines I read ran a picture of her running errands the day before she gave birth.  Her belly wasn’t all that big, she hadn’t “dropped”, and she had NO BOOBS.  My cups runneth over to begin with, and I still went up a bra size and several cup sizes.  She started her pregnancy flat chested & she ended it flat chested.  And her face never seemed to get any rounder, either.

And yeah, I know I have too much free time on my hands.  Shut up.

UGLY.

I managed to avoid it for 48 hours.  Even as I held it in my hands, I knew I shouldn’t be doing it.  I wanted to put it down, put it in the garbage, hide it in the laundry basket.  But I didn’t. 

I turned the camera on, and started scrolling through the pictures from Sunday’s baby shower.

Oh. My. God.  Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.  When did I get so HUGE?????  Where did my neck go?  What happened to my arms?  Does my belly really sit on the top of my legs like that?  That can’t be me, can it?  How?  Why?  When did I let myself get this big?????

I’ve become that woman.  The one that people stare at, to see if the chair will hold under her weight.  The one that people point out to their friends, with a nudge in the ribs and a look of disgust.  The one that teenage girls laugh at, and stage whisper “if I ever get that fat, just shoot me”.

I looked at those pictures and felt repulsed.  I literally felt the bile creeping up the back of my throat, and had to clutch the end of the countertop to keep from puking all over the kitchen.

I feel dirty.  And ugly.  And disgusting.  And completely and utterly ashamed.  We have a lamaze class on Saturday and a family reunion on Sunday, and I don’t want to go to either one.  Dear God, they should lock me up and throw away the key.  I shouldn’t be allowed to go out in public looking like this.

And yes, I know part of it is hormones.  And part of it is my terrible self-esteem.  And I shouldn’t base my self-worth on a number on the scale.  But none of that changes the fact that I see myself as a big, fat, shapeless blob (and now I have the pictures to prove it!). 

I don’t deserve to be happy.  Not when I look like this.

Oh God.  I’m broken and beyond help, and no one can fix me. 

(Note:  this is a really down entry, and I mean it to be.  I’m not going to apologize for it, or try and sugar coat how low I really feel.  I’m sure the worst of it will pass tonight with a few hours of sleep; but for right now, these words are my truth and my pain and my poison.)

Observations

You know what drives me absolutely freaking crazy????? People who put their bare feet up on the dashboard in their cars.

I have issues with feet in general; but there’s just something vile about seeing someone’s nasty putrid feet in the air in their car. Blech.

And another thing? Why the hell is there a tip jar at Papa Murphy’s pizza? They don’t give you more toppings if you throw your spare change in there, so why bother? They’re being paid a decent wage to do the service for which they were hired. You order a pizza. They make it. Can someone please explain to me why the employees think they deserve a tip for doing their job?????

And why do people feel the need to tell me I look tired? I AM TIRED. The baby is still breech, so his head is thumping against my diaphragm & his feet are forever bouncing off my bladder. I can’t breathe & I can’t stop peeing, which doesn’t exactly make for a restful night of slumber.

That last one stems from the baby shower yesterday. All in all, everything went pretty well. I found a dress (which made me look like a giant bottle of Pepto Bismol), wore comfortable shoes, and had a really nice time. I just wish people wouldn’t tell me how tired I look. I fixed my hair, put on makeup, and wore a pretty dress. Telling me I’m tired is the same (in my mind) as saying, “Geez, you look like crap!”.

More tales from the shower later – I need to go pee again.

The hits just keep on coming!!!

Got the new sandals to match the new dress for the baby shower that starts in 48 hours.

They sent 2 right shoes, and no left one. I’ve often thought I have 2 left feet, but this is ridiculous.

Also? The florist ran out of fresh roses & can’t make up the corsage we ordered. You know? The one to match the dress that came in the wrong size and won’t be available for 4-6 weeks. Maybe I should just drive my two right feet over there and kick them in the ***.

I wonder what else will go wrong between now and Sunday……….

When it rains. It’s pouring.

My lovely dress for this God-forsaken baby shower arrived today. And it’s the wrong size. The bag has the right size marked on it, but the dress inside is only an XL. I may be a lot of things right now, but a size XL is not one of them.

So, I called the company & spoke to the most useless man on the face of the earth. They don’t have any inventory in the right size; but hey, they can get one to me in about six weeks. And no, he couldn’t check availability or make any suggestions on similar dresses that they do have in stock. And no, he wouldn’t authorize free shipping on my return (even though it’s their error, and I paid $33 to have it rush shipped). And no, he wouldn’t authorize free next day air shipping on a new dress, even if I did manage to find a suitable replacement from their online catalog.

Like I said, useless.

I checked all of my online resources for something else, and came up empty handed. Ulla Popken, Silhouettes, Lane Bryant (catalog and store), Catherine’s, Roaman’s, Woman Within, One Stop Plus, Avenue, Igigi, and Peg Lutz.

So, I guess I’ll throw on the same black tank dress I’ve worn to every shower, wedding, funeral, and miscellaneous dinner I’ve attended over the last 5 years.  Dammit.

My hormones are raging tonight, and I can’t stop crying about this one stupid dress.  I’m going to bed.  Somebody hug me, please.  I needs it.

Gibberish.

It’s pretty quiet around here. The Husband is in Brazil on another work assignment, and you know what that means: bologna sandwiches for breakfast and bawling over all the labor & delivery shows on Discovery Health.

I found a dead centipede in Charlie’s water dish. It was definitely the low point of my day.

Zoey threw up in four different spots on the living room carpet last night. FOUR!!!! I think the humidity is taking a lot out of her, and she overcompensates by gulping down water, then throwing up.

I’m so sick of my mother bugging me about this stupid baby shower on Sunday. She asked me what kind of cake I wanted, and I requested cupcakes. No go. So, I threw out carrot cake, raspberry, lemon poppyseed, butter pecan, and a slew of other flavors. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Guess what we’re having? Marble. I f*cking hate marble cake.

I have to take her shopping tomorrow, so that I can pick out the decorations and order my own corsage. What the?????????? She said that she’s happy to pay for all of it, but that I need to get everything myself. Nice, eh?!? Aren’t baby showers supposed to be a relaxing day, where the mother-to-be just shows up and gets pampered all day? Not in my family, I guess.

And you know what else kills me? Isn’t it kinda tacky to bring your baby to someone else’s baby shower? Three people have asked if they can bring their kids, and one of them is my own sister-in-law. I don’t want to sound rude or like a pampered little princess . . . but for once, shouldn’t this day be about me? As much as I hate being the center of attention, I won’t be able to concentrate on properly thanking everyone if I have to compete with the wailing of a 12-week-old infant who hates noise. We’re expecting over 40 people, so it’s not like it’s going to be quiet in the restaurant.

I’ll be so happy when this shower is done. Isn’t that sad? Instead of looking forward to it, I’m dreading it. I already know exactly what’s going to happen. My mother is going to carry on about how hard she worked, getting everything ready. Then she’ll start complaining about her multitude of aches and pains, so that all of her family members give her the “oh, poor you” routine and wait on her hand and foot. I won’t get to talk to my friends, because I’ll be the one making sure everyone has enough to drink and cutting & serving the cake. My niece will start screaming, and everyone will be clamoring to quiet her down; which means no one will be available to keep track of the gifts for me. Maybe no one will notice if I just quietly slip out the side door and come home.

I’ll try and act happy, but it’s going to be tough. And again, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. God knows, there are millions of women who would kill to be in my very swollen shoes right now. But it’s not about the shower. Just like always, it’s about my family and how they always manage to ignore everything that’s important to me to suit their own selfish agendas.

Deep down, I think I just hate it when people ask my opinion, then don’t listen to me.  I’m a very good listener, and it p*sses me off when other people just can’t be bothered.  I’m the one who will ask my hairdresser about her sick mother, or my internal medicine doctor about her parents who still live in Romania.  I guess to me, it’s just a common courtesy to really listen when someone else is speaking.

Oh well.  Sunday is almost here, and it will all be over in a matter of hours.  Maybe if I click my heels together enough times, the good witch will take me home in my ruby slippers.